CHAPTER III. "I have, perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment: Good Faith, I am no wiser than a daw." 康 SHAKSPEARE. HE young men did not separate from their carousal without forming, and communicating to each other, their plans for the ensuing "Long." Some of them were to form part of a reading party in Wales under the auspices of Mr. Michelet; Lyon was bound to the Continent; and Lord Athelstane, whose "gold tuft" had entitled him sooner to his "great go," was off to his father's seat in the Highlands, but not without obtaining from St. Just and Vernon, who were starting on their first walking tour through Scotland, the pro mise to pay him a long visit during the salmon and grousing season. Feelings akin to sadness succeed the exciting pleasures of even a farewell College party. A weight is left upon us, which even the lightest hearted cannot quite shake off, when the last day has arrived, and we turn our backs on the old gray towers, past which we have so often come and gone, for full three happy years, in sorrow or in joy, in victory or defeat, calling them our own. Who sunders without a tear the link, which has bound him to his second home? Who waves his hand without a sigh to the friendly knot of well-wishers gathered at the outer gate to "see him off?" Friendships to last for life have been made there; habits, to influence his whole future character. Seeds of right, or seeds of ill, have indelibly found root within him. The boy has become a man; ay, either a good man, or a bad. Little do we think of these things, as we ought: seldom do we think of them at all. The crowding cares of life snatch them away from us. Fresh in terests rapidly succeeding each other, obliterate the lessons they would teach us. But he, who in secret self-communing, and those recollections in after life which must sometimes force themselves even upon the most thoughtless, lays them seriously to heart, forms the truest estimate of the immeasurable importance of this epoch of our lives, and is likely to prove the most grateful foster-child of that nursing mother, to whose adoption he owes so much. It was a sultry day in July, at the fag end of the London season, when St. Just and Vernon deposited their portmanteaus in the door-way of a well-known West End Hotel, a favourite Oxonian rendezvous, and bespoke beds for the week. Nature animate and inanimate spoke aloud the lassitude due to three months of continuous excitement. The very buildings looked faded, and faint, with the general exhaustion. The Parks, browned with long drought, seemed tired of the crowds which had sunned themselves there. The streets, despite the artificial showers which refreshed them, cracked thirstily. no more. Fashion, and May, and June, had once more had their reign. The popular " Derby,” and the fashionable "Oaks," were over. Aristocratic Ascot had seen its lonely heath quick with its annual thousands. The fêtes of Chiswick were White-Bait was getting out of season, and Ministers were going out of Town. The last night but one of the Opera had come. Limmer's and Long's looked shabbier than ever. Dissolute footmen and gaunt waiters lounged lazily at street doors. Vans and broad shouldered waggoners lined the squares, aiding the general decampment. Every one was thinking of the Country. Pretty maidens pined for their gardens, bold men panted for the moors! Oh! what joy to flee all this, for a first tour to the Highlands—when the young heart beats strong and free; no griefs chequering to-day, no cares clouding the morrow! So too thought and felt the two friends, as seated at the bay window of their coffee-room, and watching the passing crowds without, they enjoyed those visions of happiness, which a ramble in a new wild country cannot but awaken in kindred and ardent spirits. At an adjoining table sat an elderly man, who, to judge by the calm repose which played over a set of rather handsome and good-humoured features, was enjoying again in retrospect the dinner, which a brace of obsequious waiters were in the act of replacing with a bottle of port, and a glassful of tooth-picks. As the unerring clock from the Horse Guards' tower boomed the last stunning stroke of Seven, he was joined by a companion, who pulling his watch from his fob to testify to his punctuality, and occupying, mechanically, the chair, which had been placed for him, proceeded to unpack a pile of red-taped bundles, which at once betrayed the profession to which he belonged. "Well, Plowden," said the gentleman who had dined, "and how much longer am I to be kept in Town. Here I have been twiddling my fingers for a whole fortnight, for our trial to come on, waiting to get to the North. This suspense will fret me to death." |